


as certain things are meant to grow

by ChevreJaune



Series: the rose potter files [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Character Study, Female Harry Potter, Friendship, Gen, Hogwarts First Year, Not Canon Compliant, Relationship Study, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 20:38:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10816287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChevreJaune/pseuds/ChevreJaune
Summary: Neville Longbottom's first thought upon being sorted in Gryffindor is,wow, I did it.His second thought follows immediately:I don't belong here.If he had been kinder to himself, his third thought would have been,(yet).After all, it's silly to think seeds are meant for a particular garden or a particular pot. Only when they take root and grow can one truly say they belong to a soil, and their soil to them.





	1. seeds

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first part of a three parter (seed- growth- fruits) covering the events of first year and summer after first year through Neville's point of view. set in the rose potter files universe, but works as a standalone. I'll be posting the other two parts as following chapters within the next 48 hours. 
> 
> I like to force myself to stare at each chapter for hours, smoothing out as many kinks as I can before my eyeballs burn. 
> 
> (But it's still unbeta'ed.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeds germinate and take roots. That's the first step to life and growth, Neville Longbottom would tell you.

 

 

Neville Longbottom, in this life, does not fit any prophecy’s requirement. ‘ _And she will have a power the dark lord knows not’_ is an unmistakable clue, but Severus Snape doesn’t eavesdrop long enough to hear it. He still offers Voldemort two targets.

Voldemort would choose the boy. Only one thing stays his hand: curiosity.

For his potion master comes to him and begs for the life of Lily Potter, and isn’t that interesting? The Dark Lord does not miss the spark of obsession in Severus’ dark irises, dangerously close to his dear Bella’s amorous gazes. The look promises _loyalty_.

It would get any of his less useful followers killed.

Fortunately for Severus Snape, his potion making skills are very useful indeed.

Moreover, Voldemort is certain he can manipulate this interest as easily as he could any other emotion. The mudblood girl would make a fine reward for a follower’s _devoted_ _fealty_ – it would be a shame to waste that.

When Peter Pettigrew joins his ranks, Lord Voldemort’s smile is a thing of nightmares. With loyalties to test and baits to prepare, the young Neville Longbottom is temporarily forgotten by the Dark Lord.

(Sadly, his family isn’t forgotten by the Death Eaters.)

 

&

 

Augusta Longbottom does not know – cannot know – exactly how her son and his wife would have raised Neville, but she knows they wouldn’t want to raise a pampered heir like most pompous purebloods.  Alice and Frank might indulge a whim or two, but they would never let a son of theirs grow up spoiled.

So Neville Longbottom doesn’t grow up to be spoiled. He never demands, barely ever requests, and only sometimes dares ask for favors.

Making sure the boy doesn't become a brat is the only thing Augusta can do for his parents, and it’s the best she can do for the boy.

 

&

 

To offset the effects of St-Mungo visits, she instills in Neville early on what it means that his parents lived to be heroes.

She never asks him to measure up to that, not on any conscious level. But every time she pushes her grandson on his way up, her hand firm and loving, the young shoulders hunch a bit further in.

Neville retracts into the shadow of his parents’ sacrifice. He learns to take less space, to attract less attention. The echoes of laughter never bother the peace of Longbottom’s manor.

 

&

 

For a while, Neville thinks his grandmother and his granduncles hate him. Augusta corrects his misconceptions.

Of course they love him; only an idiot would think otherwise.

 

&

 

Young Neville resigns himself to being loved without feeling loved; time dulls the sting of it, and it becomes comfortable enough.

His grandmother still terrifies him. He is also not fond of being thrown out the window or into the lake by his uncle Algie. He knows he has magic – he feels it, sometimes, like the caress of the wind upon a fluttering leaf. It never manifests in apparent ways, however, so he might just imagine it. The probability is high: he isn’t very good at many things, he knows. He is probably little more than a Squib, with barely enough magic to force him to hope, but never enough to really matter.

One Christmas, he tells his mum how he bounced and confirmed he has magic and would be attending Hogwarts. He holds his breath because – well. Some part of him expects a reaction; maybe a flash of distress, or a downturn of her lips, or that snarl she does sometimes when the nurse fluffs her pillow wrong.

She simply looks at him, her gaze blank, considering.

Neville grasps the sheet next to his mother’s hand and pretends he is looking forward to Hogwarts.

 

&

 

On misty Sunday afternoons, the old women who come to have tea with his gran cross-stitch and reminisce.

From their faraway voices, Neville learns that Rose Potter was born within hours of him, their mothers having given birth in adjacent rooms at St-Mungo’s. The ladies recall fondly how much of a mess James Potter was, how he’d stressed about worst case scenarios and completely freaked out Frank; Augusta had to whack James to get him to stop unnerving everyone.

Neville sits and listens, trying to imagine his grandmother hitting the famous James Potter. He has only the statue of Godric Hollow to go on, but it is surprisingly not that hard to picture.

Actually, many of his baby stories include a baby Rose Potter. Something about being in hiding at the same time; it’s unreal to think of how things could have gone very differently.

Sometimes, when he tends to his Chomping Cabbages and his Sobbing Willows, Neville imagines a world where he grows up with his parents and Rose Potter is his best friend. It’s laughable in so many ways – would she mind getting dirty from all the soil? He’d probably be clumsy and break her things and she’d hate him for it. Daphne Greengrass hates him for those reasons.

And yet, Rose Potter has to be better than Daphne Greengrass. So maybe she wouldn’t want him for a friend… but Neville thinks she’d be nice about it.

 

Neville wonders if whoever takes care of Rose Potter ever mentions him to her. He doubts it.

 

&

 

Trevor is Neville’s first friend. There isn’t much to their friendship: Neville isn’t the kind to open his heart and talk to his toad. He also loses track of his companion quite a bit, working in the greenhouse. But it doesn’t matter: eventually, Trevor pops back after a few hours or a few days and Neville gives him a smile and a warm greeting. Trevor’s croaks contribute to the soothing atmosphere of his garden. With the singing daffodils, it makes for quite the wonder in spring.

It isn’t much, and Trevor does not give him signs of affection like a puppy would, but it is enough. It is more than Neville has gotten before.

 

&

 

Hermione Granger talks a lot. And she knows a lot of books. Her general demeanour reminds Neville of his grandmother, down to the matter-of-fact tone and the brisk pace.

The way she keeps talking soothes his nerve, too. He doesn’t have to think of anything clever to say, since she answers her own questions. But if she wants to be his friend, she’d probably prefer him to be somewhat intelligent.

He pauses at his train of thoughts. _If she wants to be his friend_ – he hasn’t considered the notion before. If her enthusiasm is any indicator, she does want to be his friend. Or at least, he supposes, on friendly terms.

Neville feels a small twinge at the thought. A thrill, he realizes. Inwardly, he thanks Trevor, his first friend, for giving him the opportunity to meet a new one.

Maybe Hogwarts would be fine.

 

&

 

Hogwarts is not fine.

Neville hardly understands what luck allows him to land into Gryffindor, but it excites and terrifies him both. It’s just – he’s just such a bad fit.

The boys in his dormitory are loud, exuberant. Ron Weasley and Fay Dunbar bond over Quidditch within seconds, and Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan join in the fun, Dean chatting about Muggle football with great gusto.

Neville’s father probably sat in this room a long time ago, perhaps launching into his own impassioned speech about his favourite teams. The thought warms him up, but it also sort of makes him want to cry. He swallows it down just in time to be asked about his favourite players.

He doesn’t have any; even if he did, the knot in his throat blocks air passage and words indiscriminately.

The conversation picks up again without him.

 

&

 

Classes aren’t better.

Transfigurations and charms rarely work for him, no matter how intently he stares at his feathers and buttons. Hermione always has tips and advices for him – she finishes her work quicker than anyone else – but even correcting his wand movements like she instructs, he feels clumsy and useless. He starts to avoid Hermione’s eyes whenever he tries a new spell. It makes him feel cowardly, but it’s better than seeing the girl’s puzzlement about his utter inability to carry out simple spells. He misses Hermione's stung look, and so feels nothing but relief when she finally lets up.

Potions are worse, but the very worst is flying. After that first mess, he can't find it in him to accept Professor Hooch’s offer of make-up classes.

Hermione nods like she reached that conclusion herself. Fay – now going by his middle name Lucas amongst the first-year Gryffindors – grins at him and calls him wise. ‘Those brooms are death traps,’ he says with the assurance of someone whose father owns a broom repair shop, ‘My father’s assistant would cry if he looked at the twigs. I’m trying to get them to donate a few – might be safer to wait for more stable models, Longbottom.’

Neville gives a polite smile and a thank you. He says nothing else.

After all, even if the brooms are old, _he_ is the problem. The others flew without problem, didn’t they? Rose Potter even got herself on the house team. Neville would keep his feet planted on the ground, please and thank you.

 

&

 

There are ten minutes left to the Charms class when Neville finally gets his feather to levitate an inch from his desk. Sitting next to his right, Rose Potter turns and beams at him. Her feather has flown away from the desk five minutes earlier. She’s made it wiggle a bit.

By the time the class ends, he has kept the grip on his feather long enough to feel proud and dizzy.

‘Say, Neville, I’ve caught what Fay told you about broom quality. Mine is really very stable and comfortable, and Madam Hooch says there’s this spell to make it not fly over a certain height...'

Rose Potter is standing in front of him, eyes bright and grin overstretched. The Girl-who-Lived, youngest Quidditch player in a century, has as much energy as the entire boy’s dormitory put together. Perhaps it has something to do with the third serving of treacle tart he’s seen her sneak from the Great Hall.

His lingering feeling of accomplishment makes him smile back.

‘I know I don’t look like much and I haven’t flown much in my life, but I think it’s like swimming? You need to learn to float first, and we can do a bit of that – ‘

Except she wants him to fly.

His stomach drops.

‘ –the twins can supervise, they said they’d be happy to in exchange for a go on the Nimbus, and they’ll hold the bludgers too, so you don’t need to worry about that – they said you might worry about that. Would you be interested?’

She looks at him expectantly.

‘I know we don’t really know each other much,’ she admits when he just stares, ‘but I thought… I don’t know. It was stupid, yeah? I’m no expert and you don’t know me well, so…’

‘Our mothers gave birth together,’ Neville blurts out.

She blinks.

He shuts his mouth with a click of his teeth. That isn’t what he meant to say.

‘What… what do you mean, Neville?’

Before Neville can decide how to explain – if he should explain – he registers Ron’s voice, loud and brash, complaining about Hermione’s lectures. Insulting her entire personality, Neville amends, wincing when he catches what Ron is saying and how loud he is saying it.

The wince turns into a grimace when Hermione storms past them. He notices the teary eyes before he registers her being there and then not.

‘Ouch,’ he hears Rose mumble. Then she too is gone.

 

&

 

The very next Herbology class, Rose takes a seat next to him.

It’s not the first time – when she and Ron stumble in the classroom with only minutes to spare before the start of the lecture, Rose has to take the last open seat. Usually, that seat is across from Hermione or Neville.

But this time, the classroom is still half empty when Ron and Rose come in.

‘Hi,’ Rose breathes out, putting her things down carefully. She waves goodbye at Ron.

Neville fidgets. ‘Hi.’

‘I – hm.’ There is something uncomfortable about Rose’s stare. His unease must show on his face, because she looks down. Her face reddens a bit. ‘Er, how are you doing, Neville?’

‘I… I’m good. You?’

‘I’m fine. I’m great!’

‘T… that’s g-good.’

He chances a smile at her. She smiles back before opening her mouth. She closes it again, unsure. Neville never thought himself to be very observant, but he can see the hurricane of questions on the tip of her tongue, trapped behind her teeth.

She won’t ask unless he offers, he realizes.

He doesn’t offer.

‘Yes,’ she agrees at last. ‘All’s good. You don’t mind me sitting here, do you?’

‘N-no, of course not.’

Her smile is broader this time. ‘Then this’ll be my spot from now on! Still don't mind?’

‘N-no, it’s… it’s fine. Good.’             

‘Yeah,’ Rose agrees, nodding her head. The smile is still anchored there; slightly dimmer but very genuine.

 

At least it’s Herbology.

He doesn’t know if he’d have survived it if Rose Potter had decided to get to know him in Potions.

 

&

 

Rose Potter, Neville learns through the course of many Herbology classes, does not mind soil getting on her clothes. Or on her face. She isn’t fond of moss and dirt getting stuck under her nails, but she never complains about it. She just picks at it and frowns when her efforts fail to get the dirt out – and she’ll mutter a curse or two sometimes when her attempts push the soil further in.

Having Rose Potter next to him is pleasant enough: her reflexes are sharp and her calloused fingers have no problem pulling at weeds and repotting even the most restless specimens. She isn’t great at herbology – she doesn’t even try to be – but she looks as if she is enjoying it a great deal, and that’s nice.

Her chatter sometimes picks up, and he learns that she knows a great deal about Muggle gardening. She has a soft spot for what she calls the ‘language of flowers’. According to her, it has to do with her mother side of the family, but she remains sparse on that for lack of knowledge. Well – she knows a lot about the flowers. It is the reason why they matter to her maternal family that she is unsure about.

Mostly, though, she keeps quiet. The questions she wants to ask still hover at times. Neville pretends he doesn’t notice. For two lions, they are astonishingly cautious.

 

&

 

Yule comes and goes without a fuss. From his granduncle Algie, Neville receives a gold and scarlet scarf, as well as a tiny replica meant for Trevor. His grandmother presents him with a carefully wrapped box.

Neville feels around the silver paper, trying to find the edge to begin unwrapping. He is mystified to find none.

‘Gran?’ he asks, trying not to frown.

‘You can tear through it, if you want to open it right now,’ Augusta offers, her voice stiff with impatience. It isn’t _real_ impatience: it is just the form of impatience she is so used to expressing it has become second nature.

Neville waits, uncertain. There is a ‘or’ hiding in there. She gives him a nod. ‘If you want to wait, take the present back to Hogwarts. It shall open to you in its own time, without making a mess.’

‘G-good,’ Neville says after allowing for a very long pause. ‘Th-thank you, gran.’

The box sits on his dresser for the rest of the holidays, unassuming.

 

&

 

There is something different about Rose, Neville observes in Herbology.

‘Neville! How was your Christmas?’

‘H-hey,’ Neville greets back, ‘It was g-good. How was y-yours?’

She grins. ‘The best! I got gifts!’

Rose does seem genuinely happy about the holidays, he finds. She also seems something else.

‘Did something happen?’ he asks slowly, carefully. 

Her face falls, just a little. ‘Why do you ask?’

Neville shrugs. He needs to mind his own business. His business is the Maple Lotus they have to groom – which looks more yellowish than purple. That is worrying.

‘I found…’ Rose’s voice drags his attention away from the plant. ‘There was…’

Her face scrunches up.

Neville waits.

‘There was this… apple,’ she continues at last, looking wistful. ‘It was a poisoned apple, of sorts. But it tasted good, I wanted more of it and…’

Neville straightens in alarm. ‘Do you… n-need to go to the hospital wing? Or did you g-go already?’

Rose shakes her head. ‘Not like that.’

‘What…’

But he can’t finish his question. It occurs to him that there are no apples served at Hogwarts, not in winter. September is the apple season, and they pop up until the beginning of November. They have to, because the purebloods use apple quarters in some of the Samhain’s rituals – the harmless ones, the ones that could be done with herbs and fruits and easy chants.

He clears his throat. ‘Not… not a real apple?’

The Girl-who-Lived smiles at him. ‘Not a real poison either. But it feels like it – it won’t let up.’

Then Neville finds it, the thing that’s different about her: her eyes.

They look haunted.

 

&

 

January passes without a hitch – as far as well goes for Neville, it goes well.

He trudges through his harshest classes, keeps twitching through potion brewing even though he knows he shouldn’t. He loses Gryffindors so many points in potions on a weekly basis he's sure they’d be glad to get rid of him – the only people who get so many slights from Snape are Rose Potter and the Weasley twins.

But Rose never explodes any potion and hands in proper essays, and the twins are being funny. Neville, on the other hand, is just a disaster.

Well. At least he does his best. His housemates appreciate that, he imagines.

That changes in May.

Of course: there is a dragon involved.

 

&

 

The strangest thing isn’t that Neville gets shunned from Gryffindors – it’s that they shun him because of Hermione Granger and Rose Potter. It is unthinkable. Those two are the closest thing he has to _friends_.

Yet the three of them lose a hundred fifty points in one night. The aftermath is not pretty. Neville closes his eyes and his fists upon hearing what the rest of the common room has to say to them or about them. He wishes he could close his ears and ignore that everyone hates him now.

After their detention in the Forbidden Forest, Neville decides two things.

One, the nasty comments are nothing compared to the bone chilling atmosphere of the forest. Neville has never felt this way in a green space before – woods and tropical forests, meadows and mountains, places with plants usually make him feel at home. But there is a presence in the forest, something vile and heavy, different than the various creatures inhabiting the trees. It terrifies him as much as it disgusts him.

Two? Two is his certainty that it couldn’t get worse than May. He wouldn’t _let it_. Merlin be damned, if the Girl-who-Lived and her friends try to go for any other adventure, he’ll stop them. He refuses to lose this many points and disappoint their House again. And he certainly doesn’t want another detention like this.

When he sees Rose’s grim expression as she trudges out of the forest, he knows it would be for her own good, too.

 

&

 

The Girl-who-Lived and her friends try to go for another adventure.

Neville glares at the three of them. The words of reproach, angry and loud, rush out of him – for once, his stutter comes out of anticipation rather than hesitation. He thinks his murderous eyes and his threat might make them think twice. He is wrong.

 

Hermione Granger petrifies him.

Rose Potter tells him in a rush they plan to stop Snape from bringing back Voldemort.

Ron Weasley shakes his head furiously and his eyes scream, _you’re wasting our time_.

 

Crazy, is his first thought. You-Know-Who is long dead. How stupid do they think he is?

But. He might be that much of an idiot, because he believes it. Impossibly, unreasonably, he believes Rose.

With a shaky nod and an even shakier step, Neville follows them.

 

&

 

(Somewhere in his trunk, a silvery wrapping peels away, as natural as a snake shedding its skin, as delicate as a blossom folding out upon the spring)

 


	2. growth

When he chooses to block the Fat Lady’s portrait from Rose, Hermione and Ron, Neville thinks he’s trying to prove the same point he’s been failing to prove all year: that he belongs in Gryffindor, and he would stand up for it.

He expects resistance, has prepared for it. Admittedly, he expects a move from Ron. Instead, he gets a Full Body Bind from Hermione. The feeling of betrayal is unmistakable: Hermione had always been _nice_ to him.

He doesn’t expect Rose Potter grabbing his frozen wrist and staring down into his soul either. Trying to find what the Sorting Hat had seen as she delivers a rousing speech full of impossible things.

Against all odds, she finds something in him. ‘I knew you’d be with us!’

_Neville_ had known no such thing and, from the looks of it, neither had Hermione or Ron. But Rose deems him good enough to follow them on their crazy quest.

So he does. It’s so simple, in the end.

Alone, he’d have run the opposite direction the second he spotted the giant Cerberus. With them, he stops thinking - completely blanks out, he believes - and steps down the trap door.

 

.

 

It’s in the way Hermione, Ron and Rose turn to each other _and to him too_ before every obstacle.

How Hermione runs to Ron the moment the chess game is over, but Rose isn’t too rushed to realize how pasty Neville looks – and how she automatically holds him up. Together, they stumble their way closer to Ron’s crumpled body – crumpled but breathing. There is no mistaking the hitched rise of his chest.

Neville feels _included_.

The moment is really badly chosen to dwell on it, though.

Rose clears her throat. ‘Neville, I know you don’t fly, but… if you could try, you could turn around and bring Ron to the infirmary. Make sure he’ll be fine.’ The intonation of her voice indicates clearly reluctance to ask.

He struggles to answer. Amazingly, she does not push.

She knows, he realizes with a jolt, how little he wants to mount another broom ever again. She hasn’t asked earlier, when there had been three brooms and a thousand flying keys. He looks down, feeling his neck burning from shame.

‘Neville, you don’t have to. I shouldn’t have asked. Just… cozy him up here?’

He shakes his head. He wouldn’t let her be sorry, not when she hasn’t been sorry to trust him this far. ‘I’m a Gryffindor too, Rose.’

She gauges him before grinning. ‘Take my owl and send a letter to Dumbledore while you’re upside, yeah?’

‘I will,’ Neville promises, swallowing with difficulty.

 

.

 

The Devil’s Snare wasn't his test, Neville realizes, even though he had supplied the answer. He flinches when his fingers touch the battered wood of the broom. _This_ is his test of courage.

Against the wall where Neville propped him up, Ron moans. Neville’s clumsy carrying style too hasn’t allowed the ginger-head much rest. Perhaps it’s better this way: the young Longbottom knows from experience that concussions aren’t something you simply sleep off.

‘Imagine it’s a branch or something. Giant beanstalk, mate. You sit on it and tell it what’s what.’

Neville laughs weakly. ‘Fay would be better at this. How… how do I even carry you up?’

‘Should have asked Hermione that,’ Ron grunts unhappily, ‘and Lucas is a wanker. Better it’s you.’

Ron allows Neville to prop him up on a broom and laughs when Neville steers them wrong, knocking them a couple of times against the looming ceiling before finally guiding them through the Devil’s Snares.

‘That’ll leave a bump,’ Ron notes, shifting his weight so that a next incident can be avoided. Neville has no talent for balance, but Ron’s presence helps. Neville can follow his lead. ‘You’ll have to either fly fast past the hellhound or you’ll have to sing pretty.’

Neville gulps. ‘I’ll… I’ll sing.’

Ron cracks a lopsided grin. ‘Brilliant, mate! Let’s get going, then!’

Neville sings an old lullaby, unsure of the exact words, but his gran had sung it when he had been sick and miserable. Ron makes no comment about it, except to nudge him to sing louder so all three heads could hear the melody.

They crash as soon as they make it out of the blasted room. Ron gives a wheezing laugh and then sobers instantly. ‘Hope Rose whoops Snape’s saggy arse… urgh.’ His hand reaches out to touch the caked blood in his hair. His eyes widen. ‘Oh bloody hell!’

Neville feels blood pounding against his temples. He gives Ron a small smile. ‘First time getting beaten in a chess match?’

Ron snorts. ‘Of course you’d be funny _now_. S’not like it hurts when I laugh.’

‘Oh! I’m… I’m sorry, Ron,’ Neville says, but stops at Ron’s exasperated look. ‘Better get you to Madam Pomfrey fast, I suppose…’

‘Owlery first,’ Ron croaks, glaring as Neville’s protest. ‘I’ll just… sit on the broom and you can steer it while you walk next to me. Then it'll be faster.’

There is no mistaking the worry in Ron’s sky blue eyes as they flicker back to the door. The suggestion makes sense: Neville really isn’t strong enough to drag Ron very far. He’d probably trip and aggravate any injury, too. Only one problem remains. ‘If Filch catches us…’

‘Even the twins never flew in the corridors, yeah. We’d be done for.’ The notion seems to cheer Ron up. A second later, his face scrunches up again. ‘Anyway, s’not like we’re doing this for kicks, Nev.’

Neville thinks of Rose and Hermione and about how scary Snape is even when he is supposed to be helping them in the classroom.

They get going.

 

.

 

Three quarters of an hour after Neville manages to bring Ron to the hospital wing, Dumbledore appears, carrying Rose. Hermione follows, babbling about how worried she was and how powerless she felt and what had Professor Snape done to Rose, why was she twitching like that?

Dumbledore gently lays Rose in a pristine bed. ‘I think we will let Poppy be the judge of her condition. As for Severus, I am happy to say that the loyalty I have placed in him has not been misplaced, as he wasn’t responsible for this night’s events.’ He puts a hand up when Hermione opens her mouth to ask more questions. ‘The four of you have had a tiring evening. There will be time for answers in the morning. Rose most likely has many questions of her own.’

‘Yes, Headmaster,’ Hermione mumbles, shuffling her feet.

The old wizard nods with a kind look, then looks over the lot of them. ‘It is at times like these that I gaze at the future of our world and find hope. I am exceedingly proud of the courage you showed tonight.’

‘T-thank you, Headmaster,’ Hermione stammers while Ron returns a tired smile. Neville blushes and barely manages to string together a thank you.

 

.

 

Rose doesn’t have questions in the morning, because she is still not awake.

Neville’s earlier epiphany of _finally belonging_ comes with upsetting but not wholly unexpected side-effects. For instance, seeing Rose unconscious in bed, tiny and fragile, would not have hurt this much if he hadn’t come to think of her as an important friend.

Sure, tons of students visit the Girl-who-Lived and speculate on how she has gotten her bruises and burns. They bring sweets and gifts – the toilet seat from the twins is strange, but he imagines it might stir a laugh from Rose – and outrageous anecdotes.

However, it is Neville, Ron and Hermione who sit vigil by her bed.

 

.

 

After lunchtime, Hermione pulls out a few textbooks so they can revise what they learnt over the year. Neville thinks it’s a nice gesture; Ron doesn’t seem so enthused.

‘But we’ve already _done_ the exam for Charms!’

‘Yes, but retention of the subject is invaluable, Ronald,’ responds Hermione with pinched lips. It makes her look remarkably like Professor McGonagall. ‘Or do you plan to simply flush your brain of the knowledge we have accumulated over the year as soon as you get a grade for it like a common buffoon?’

‘That’s how school works, Hermione!’

‘I should think not! A good education builds the layers of a bright future. You want to retain a solid base before adding the next floor, like in a house. I will be spending half of the summer going through this year’s material before going over what we will be learning next year,’ she adds primly.

Ron shakes his head. ‘Crazy bint,’ he mutters, low enough that only Neville hears it. Hermione shoots him a glare anyway.

‘I’ll revise with you,’ Neville offers Hermione hesitantly, ‘if you want.’

‘You will? Why, that’s marvelous! Did you hear him, Ronald? He’s not just here to mess about and steal candies from Rose’s presents!’

Ron gapes. ‘I’m not here to mess about! I’m injured!’

‘Yes, well.’ Hermione eyes the gauze patch on Ron’s head, suspicious. ‘You called it a scratch. It shouldn’t stop you from being productive.’

‘Yeah, well,’ Ron starts, fumbling for an argument, ‘we patients need rest and we can’t get it with your constant nattering. This is the _infirmary_ , Hermione,’ he finishes emphatically, enunciating every syllable as if talking to Crabbe or Goyle.

As intended, Hermione takes offense. ‘Shall we leave you to your little afternoon nap, then?’

‘Sounds brilliant, actually,’ Ron snaps, ears reddening.

Hermione nods tersely and gathers her school books. She’s halfway out when she whirls around. ‘Neville?’

Neville blinks. He glances at Hermione’s tense posture and Ron’s strategic slouch. Ron shrugs at him. His expression is ambiguous – it could be saying ‘just go already’ or ‘better you than me, mate’ or just ‘take that woman far away from here’. Either way, Neville supposes his presence will not be missed and shuffles out of the hospital wing.

On the way to the library, he tries to apologize for Ron’s attitude, but Hermione wants none of it. No one is responsible for another person’s shortcomings, Hermione lectures him. Being friends means that she won’t hold his childishness against him for long anyway, though she hopes he'll grow out of it soon.

Neville nods. It makes sense. If they don’t hold _his_ forgetfulness and clumsiness and general uselessness against him, it’s probably because they have some amount of practice in overlooking obvious character flaws.

‘Besides,’ she continues, ‘when Rose wakes up, she will set him straight.’

From her determined nod, Neville can see that Hermione really believes that.

 

.

 

Rose does not set Ron straight. She doesn’t even care to try. When Neville and Hermione come back to see her awake, Rose is deep into a conversation about Muggle medicine with Ron, who looks halfway between disgusted and amazed.

Hermione, however, frowns in concern.

‘Rose,’ she hedges after listening to Rose’s explanations about cutting limbs and dogs and bats with rabies, ‘I don’t think your understanding of medical science is sound.’

‘What did I get wrong?’

‘Most of it? Rose, when’s the last time you’ve been to a Muggle doctor?’

Rose flushes. ‘I got the basic shots at school, so there hasn’t been a need… I’ve seen some stuff on the telly, though.’

‘Never? What about your check-ups?’

Rose’s jaw tightens. ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it? Madam Pomfrey can help me out just fine. It doesn’t matter,’ she stresses, ‘besides, magic trumps science, right?’

From the irritated glance Ron throws Rose, Neville is pretty sure the provocation is calculated. Only Hermione, in her outrage, misses Rose's self-satisfied smile as the Muggleborn girl launches into a tirade about the merits of the scientific process and technology's latest improvements.

With Hermione on a roll, the two purebloods boys and the Girl-who-Lived end up learning more than they thought was possible – or interesting – about Muggle medicine.

Neville briefly wonders if any of those bizarre techniques could heal his parents.

He tries to squash the hope before it has a chance to grow.

 


	3. fruits

 

Neville’s feeling of belonging unravels as the summer holidays start.

In the hospital wing, he had listened to Hermione and Ron bickering and had managed to utter a few words here and there. He had held Rose’s gaze before and after the traps and she had approved of him – well, he thinks she did. There was something in her eyes, something kind and determined, and when she had nodded at him it had meant something.

Now that he's back home, he isn’t sure anymore.

Because he hadn’t helped them all that much, had he? His small contribution of identifying a plant couldn’t have meant much when Hermione Granger was present. She would have had the answer a millisecond after he piped up. They were just nice enough - and otherwise busy - to mention it.

His task of getting Ron out had probably done more damage than good: more than a few of Ron’s bruises had been caused by his inability to fly a broom correctly.

He should have taken Rose up on her offer to teach him the basics. He had been too ashamed, so scared of failing again and possibly damaging her expensive broom. His pride had caused trouble and hurt a friend. His cheeks heat up thinking of it. They had dragged him along on Rose’s whim – Ron hadn’t wanted to, he is aware of that, and Hermione had petrified him of all things – and he’d been a burden more than an asset.

Thinking back on it, Nevile is pretty sure that his feeling of fitting in came more from his deluded imagination than anything tangible.

 

 

 

Hermione’s first letter arrives on a Thursday. It is carried by a Muggle who seems flabbergasted at the size of Longbottom’s manor – and honestly bewildered at the fact that it is his first time seeing it from his entire career as a postman.

Hermione tells him of schoolwork and of the dreadful task of informing her Muggle parents of the year’s events without having them pull her out of Hogwarts.

_I had to lie to them about a number of things,_ she writes and he can tell it’s both sheepish and proud _.  I wish I could say I only omitted a few things, but they are persistent and very sharp; thus I have to confess not to innocent white lies but to downright untruths._

Neville’s doubts ease by an inch and he smiles.

 

 

 

He fills his reply with information about his favourite plants, which one he tended to during the summer, which one he entrusted to his grandmother’s care during the semester. Against his better judgment not to write too much, his letter spares no detail. It’s the first time he goes on a limb like that. Every communication in his youth had been carefully revised by his gran – don’t bore the poor girl, she’d say of the letter he just penned.

Only, Neville Longbottom knows Hermione would want to know as much as possible about these plants. She had roped him into an extra-curricular intersectional herbology and potion project, after all. If he omits anything, she’ll be pestering him for details. She might do that anyway.

Energized by his daring, Neville grabs another piece of parchment and pens a letter to Rose, too.

 

 

 

His owl comes back with Hermione’s reply in a matter of days. If he didn’t already know how quick her brain worked and how fast she could write, he’d be stunned by how long the letter is.

There isn’t much he can answer to it, though. He could manage a few sentences of polite interest, but… well. A childhood full of social obligations with elderly ladies makes him wary of making his budding friendship with Hermione an exchange of stiff greetings and small talk. Unless something comes up, he’ll postpone his reply until his Brazilian Belladonna arrives.

No, what Neville really looks forward to is Rose’s reply. He had sent a picture of their mothers together at Hogwarts, found in a musty box he’d unearthed when they expanded the greenhouse. The colours were faded, but Alice’s pixie cut and Lily’s sparkling green eyes made it feel vibrant still. The picture is not his favourite – Neville prefers the one where his mum notices the camera and waves the photographer– but it’s the one he like second best. Considering how teary Rose had been upon receiving her first photo album from Hagrid, he knows she’ll be able to appreciate it just as much as Neville does.

Maybe she’ll appreciate it more, even. He remembers her stricken expression. ‘They’re so young,’ she had whispered, her heart in her throat.

 

 

 

So Neville tends to his plants and waits. He struggles through his summer assignments even though Hermione sends him a Muggle book about mnemonics and studying strategies. It doesn’t help much, but there are a few tricks he might use to remember the passwords to the Common Room.

Rose never replies, and Neville gradually stops hoping. The doubts he had before receiving Hermione’s first letter come back to nag at him, to remind him of his frightful inadequacy. They fester.

 

 

 

_I have been sending letters to Rose_ , Hermione confirms in July after Neville brings himself to ask. _She hasn’t responded to a single one of them. She hasn’t answered any of Ron’s either, which I’m most surprised about. I know he has invited her to spend part of the summer at his place and she looked very happy about the offer. I know she said yes. I don’t know why she hasn’t said anything all summer, but yes, I am worried. I remember how she said she’s never been to the doctor, but I would not to jump to conclusions._

The reassurances are nice – if worrying in what they imply– and Neville decides to give it more time. Rose doesn’t owe him anything, much less a prompt reply. And Rose has shown faith in him when she had no reason to: the least he can do is to return the favour and believe in her. It’s surprisingly easy. Then again, there is nothing really surprising about it.

The only problem left is believing in himself.

 

 

_Mate, the Muggles had locked her up!_ says Ron’s letter, the first one he has sent Neville all summer. _The twins and I had to go and stage a daring rescue with Dad’s flying car. Had to pull the bars from her window and pick the many locks on her bedroom door – that family of hers is as crazy paranoid as old Mad Eye, if you’ll believe that. Rose’s at the Burrow for the rest of the summer. You can expect mail from her sometime soon, she said she only got to have her correspondence a few days ago on her birthday. I’m not sure yet what that’s about, but if that’s her relatives’ idea of a gift, it’s bloody twisted is what it is. I know for a fact she’ll thank you for yours, she was so stocked._

Neville can only stare at Ron’s rushed penmanship. Obviously, Ron had sent Rose a lot of letters over the summer – he’d have to in order to notice something was wrong. Not wrong in a cautiously worried way like Hermione: wrong in a way that urged him to do something about it. Deep down, Neville knows that Hermione would have waited until the beginning of the semester before demanding answers. She could think of too many probable reasons why Rose would avoid her or refuse to answer to discount any one of them as serious possibilities. And just like that, Neville also knows that Hermione probably has her own insecurities. If he pulls out her latest letters, he might even be able to spot them.

But Ron never once doubted that when Rose said she’d write, she meant it. He knew better than to waste time on doubt, not when there were more important things to do like making sure Rose was fine. That was probably the reason Ron was her best friend – he had Rose’s back, no question asked.

 

 

Rose’s letter comes on a Wednesday.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it for this three-parter! dear neville - so cautious, so insecure. so much overthinking and yet still enough willfulness to trust a friend to be a friend.


End file.
